


Belong to Me

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consensual Possession, F/M, Incorporeal Sex, Other, Public Sex, Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:39:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The god she serves loves her as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belong to Me

The Stranger was tucked away from the other Seven, in a dark and ill-lit alcove, all but untouched by the glow from the colored glass windows. A scant few candles littered the base of his statue, casting shadows across the folds in his robe, making his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks seem deeper. This was a rare illustration, and though Arya didn't have much of an eye for art, she wanted to commend the sculptor on his daring. Unlike so many others, the Stranger's hood was pulled back to reveal his face, the illusion of skin stretched tight over protruding bone treading the line between life and death. No corpse she'd ever seen had looked half so beautiful. There had to be a model, someone the artist either loved passionately or hated with as much fervor; she didn't think anyone would take such a risk to display a face and not have a profound reason for it.

No one paid her any mind as she moved through the sept towards the Stranger, the sound of prayers and hymns lost in the narrow recess. Not even the Silent Sisters lingered nearby; perhaps they were away tending to some death - there were enough of them in the bitter chill of winter. It didn't matter to her, as long as she was alone in her communion.

In the years since she arrived in Braavos, Arya had heard the names of countless gods in countless tongues, had seen their images etched in stone or painted or drawn in ink, but those were gods for soldiers, sailors, and slaves, for prostitutes both sacred and profane, for the ancient and the babes, for mothers, for lovers, for kings... and she was no one. No one had to have a god with no name or face of his own either, and the Stranger was the image that lived in her heart. Everyone who perceived him did so in a different way: whether his face was half man and half woman, he had half the body of a human and half the body of a beast, or half his body was flushed and alive while the other half rotted off his bones. Likewise, her own vision of him changed from time to time depending on the blood on her hands.

Even now, there was dried blood caked under her fingernails from a throat she'd slit, staining the lines of her palms and the creases of her knuckles. She pulled a skin of stream water from the bag at her side and poured it into her cupped hand, letting it trickle and slide over her hands, scrubbing the dried blood from her skin. The water dropped dirty to the base of the statue, tinged with the faint blush of blood, streaking through the thick layer of dust that surrounded the candles. She poured the water again, rinsing her hands, flames hissing and flickering as her movements flicked thick droplets of water onto the candles. When her hands were finally clean, she tucked the skin back into her bag, dropped the strap off her shoulder, and shifted to kneel on the floor at the Stranger's feet.

Unlike the others of the Faith, the Stranger had no prayers or offerings, but Arya gave them nonetheless. Her prayer had gotten shorter since she was a girl, through fortune and circumstance, but it was no less the psalm she'd always recited, as easy as breathing. Her breath made the candles flicker, a faint chill slipped through the old sept and crawled slowly up her spine, tickling the back of her neck and rustling her short hair. She shrugged it away with barely a shiver and lowered her head again. It wasn't long before she was lost in the rhythm of her prayer again, too consumed with the slow burning anger tucked deep inside to notice a shadow looming closer.

The first she felt of it was the subtle whisper of a touch along the side of her neck, enough to startle her. The suggestion of thin, cold fingertips drew across her jaw and back into her hair, sweeping it away from her neck before it trailed towards her spine. Arya shivered, sucking in a sharp breath as the presence closed further in on her. The air had turned thick, lingering like a cold, damp sheet wrapping tighter around her. With it came the cloying sweet scent of lilies, masking a heavier, mustier odor of decay. She knew that smell as well as any other, as it graced the low, winding halls of the House of Black and White. For years that smell had meant home the way crisp snow and oak meant Winterfell. Briefly, she looked around to see if any of the Silent Sisters had opened up a previously unseen door to their own buried work-rooms, but there was no more sign of movement now than there had been moments before.

When she lifted her gaze to the statue, it seemed almost as though the Stranger's expression had shifted. He no longer stared vacantly into the distance, but seemed as though he looked directly at her, his unwavering gaze sending another sharp prickle along her spine. She drew in a slow breath to steady her drumming heartbeat and settled back on her heels, locking gazes with the Stranger's gaunt face. The soft sizzle of flame and distant hymns seemed to twist and roll together into a hollow whisper that danced around the edge of her awareness.

She would have to be completely ignorant to not know the source of that feeling. It had kept her company through too many dark, lonely, fear-riddled nights to name. It was like an old friend, the presence of Death, and one that she greeted with a reverence she'd felt for nothing else. No sooner than she opened herself up to him, to the Stranger, than the presence settled over her again. It blanketed her, leaving her skin feeling as though she'd walked through cobwebs. She felt a pull on her cloak and loosened it, dropping her hand to her belt to undo the buckle and let her weapons clatter softly to the floor next to her.

She didn't know how to be afraid of Death anymore, and so she answered every pull with all the willingness she possessed. The more she gave herself to it, the more she felt the presence press nearer, as if it were made stronger by her compliance. If she gave enough of herself, perhaps she could even give flesh to this disembodied presence. The thought didn't seem foolish to her at all, not when every moment the air closed tighter around her and pressed closer to her body. She reached for the laces on her tunic, fumbling them loose so the fabric could slide from her shoulders and to a pale pool around her waist. She had no shame in her body, in her own nakedness, nor in offering it in such a vulgar supplication.

He responded by sliding his touch along her ribs again, dancing along the space beneath her breast and the drawing slowly down her inner thigh. Her breath hitched softly and she let her eyes flutter close, resting her body on the cold stone between her feet. His touch wandered along her skin and the feel of breath brushed her ear, the barest ghost of words, a promise of flesh struggling to come into being. Arya lulled her head to the side, eyes still shut tight, and felt his mouth brush against her own. He tasted of stale air and dirt, the faintest hint of rust and blood lingering on the edge like an old blade, and the taste of skin though there was plainly none to taste. The rest was so outside her senses that she could not even begin to describe it, and that only enticed her further. She let out a shuddering breath and twist further in his hold, her lips finding thin, parchment-rough skin stretched tightly over jagged bone.

Arya dare not open her eyes for fear that this phantom may vanish the moment she did. Instead, she squeezed them shut tighter and pressed into him, offering herself, letting him wash over her. The rush that followed was unlike anything she'd felt before, and intimate pleasure was hardly unknown to her. It clung heavy to her body and twist around her limbs, finding places within and without that no living being (or otherwise, for that matter) had ever found. It grasped her at her core and twist, thrusting her brutally over the edge.

She caught herself on her hands and knees in front of the statue, her hair hanging lank in front of her face, her shoulders and chest heaving. She felt flush, her body slick with sweat, though the air around her still held a bitter chill. She reached for her tunic to tug it back over her chest, but felt the presence settle over her again. Arya braced herself, expecting him to take over her body, but instead she felt the barest murmur of a touch down her spine, a softly reassuring touch. She arched towards it, sighing as it finally recoiled and took the heavy, damp air with it.

As she reached for her tunic, she settled down on her heels again, pushing her hair away from her face. The candles had gone out, pools of wax steadily congealing as wisps of smoke curled from their bent, charred wicks. She felt as they must have felt: spent and heavy, warm with a heat that had blazed through her and then left as quickly as it had arrived. But instead of feeling extinguished, she felt that coiling energy looming still at the base of her spine - a reminder that what had happened hadn't just been a figment of her imagination. She gathered herself back together, strapped her belt around her waist and fastened her cloak in place, then finally reached for her satchel. Her hands shook as she lifted it, breath still labored as she dragged it over her shoulder. Even her knees felt weak as she turned and started for the door of the sept.

Arya thought she felt the vacant eyes of the Stranger linger on her as she left, a whisper faint against her ear. Whether in this sept or the next she would always return to him with her offerings and prayers and, she knew now, he was there and he heard.


End file.
